


Arrival of the Birds

by kyrilu



Series: Flite [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Banter, Bonding, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Codependency, Death References, Dubious Consent, F/M, Friendship, FrostIron - Freeform, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M, Mental Breakdown [implied], Mental Instability, Multi, OT3, One-Sided Relationship, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Science Bros, Snark, Threesome -- F/M/M, blackhulkeye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all about synchronization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrival of the Birds

**Author's Note:**

> Beta credit goes to Grey_Bard, who answered my request, and provided so much help for typos, dialogue, and Tony-related issues. This fic would not be what it is now without her. This was also betaed by the most excellent chaperoned, who fixed my awkward grammar, and was generally enthusiastic over chat. :)

 

*

 

“Tony Stark of Stark Enterprises has dedicated himself to cleaning up New York,” a woman drones on the news. Her white teeth glints in the studio light. She continues, “The reconstruction project began a week ago. Our city continues to slowly pick up the pieces after the alleged extraterrestrial invasion--”

“Alleged?” Bruce interrupts.

“People are still trying to wrap their head around the idea of aliens, Bruce,” Tony says, slurping eagerly on chow mein. They’d ordered Chinese take-out for dinner tonight; Tony promised him that this restaurant's food was delicious. “I mean, some nutjobs out there are insisting it’s a hoax that the government cooked up. Not a lot of people, yeah, but they need somebody to blame.”

“And since they don’t see aliens,” Bruce says, “they’re looking at the government.”

Tony points one of his chopsticks at Bruce. “Yep. Right. But any _ways_ ,” he says, elongating the last syllable of the word. “No need to watch this boring drivel about myself. How about we find something more interesting?”

“I thought you liked hearing people talk about you,” Bruce teases, a smile flickering on his mouth.

“Oh, I do,” Tony says with a little swagger. “But, c’mon. I’ve been hearing about this clean up for days. No need to remind me. It’s just a lot of hard work, sweat, tears.”

“Yeah,” Bruce says, scooping rice from his take-out box. “I’ve noticed. More fun than compiling field trip lists, I presume.”

“Not really.” A shrug.

Bruce gives Tony a quick shoulder clap, mustering a smile. “You want to turn in early? You look tired.”

“I’m fine.” Tony brushes him off. “Look, I got us dinner, it’s okay.”

“Mm,” Bruce says in reply, still worried.

Tony grins and pokes Bruce with a chopstick; Bruce doesn’t even bat an eye. “Geez, lay off me. What do you wanna watch? I’m rich, remember. I get _all_ the channels.”

“I don’t know,” Bruce says through a mouthful of food. “I haven’t been exactly keeping up with television shows recently. Just pick something.” He gestures to the remote uselessly.

“Sure, sure.”

Random snippets of TV programs flash by as Tony goes through the channels. Commercials, news, cartoons, and so on. He finally settles on a police procedural show, declaring, “There you go. Mindless fun for both of us.”

Bruce relaxes into the couch, the sounds of police sirens and the Miranda Rights being recited washing over him. He closes his box of rice, reaches for a glass of water.

During the commercial break, Tony says, “So. Food’s pretty good, right?”

“Yeah. Are you seriously sharing _all_ your favorite restaurants with me?” Ever since Bruce arrived at the tower, Tony had a meal delivered daily -- whether it was breakfast, lunch, dinner, or even brunch -- and they ate together.  


“In alphabetical order,” Tony boasts. “JARVIS made me a list.”

“It’s, well. It’s fun, actually,” Bruce admits. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Tony says. “Hey, wait, I forgot about dessert places. JARVIS, make a note.”

“ _Yes, sir,”_ the robotic voice replies.

“You’re still insane, though,” Bruce says with a shake of his head.

Tony beams, of all the expressions he could’ve worn. “In a good way, Brucie. Out of both of us, I can confidently claim the mad scientist role. You get to be the mild-mannered scientist.”

“I haven’t heard any evil cackling yet, Tony.”

Tony says, “And don’t you dare expect any. I don’t think maniacal laughs do any favors for my charmingly handsome appearance.” He sweeps up his empty Chinese boxes back into a plastic bag, as if the matter is closed.

Bruce tosses a chopstick into the bag, and it sails right inside. “Right,” he agrees.

“Oh, so you’re a sarcastic scientist now?” Tony says, looking mock-offended.

“Doctor Jekyll, Stark. If you want to be more specific.”

“I didn’t know we were doing literary allusions now.” Tony rolls his eyes. “I slept through my English classes, big guy. Don’t pull this bullshit on me.”

“And the other guy isn’t Frankenstein, either,” Bruce says lightly, relishing the fact that he can joke around about this with Tony. “Frankenstein’s the scientist, not the science experiment.”

Tony smiles lopsidedly. “Okay. Got me there. Didn’t know that one.”

“And now you know.” He shoots his other chopstick into the bag. “What dessert places do you have in mind?”

He receives a wink. “It’s a surprise, Bruce. You’ll see tomorrow.”

 

*

 

Tomorrow Bruce pries off Tony’s armor, Tony leaning heavily against him.

“Rough day?” he asks.

“City’s a big mess,” Tony says. He attempts to rotate an arm. “Damn, that hurts.”

He’d been missing the whole day, before showing up with his helmet gone. There was dirt on his face and in his hair. Bruce reaches for a rag lying on the workshop bench, scrubbing at the brown. “What did you have to do?”

“Moved some buildings.” Tony winces when Bruce rubs the rough cloth just a little too harshly. “Jesus, be careful.”

“Sorry,” he says, gentling the motion as he mops along the line of Tony’s chin. A red and gold fragment of Tony’s suit lies at his feet, and he kicks it away, careful not to break it. “You can fix this, right?”

Nodding, Tony says distractedly, “I need to reattach several parts. It won’t take too long.” He continues stretching his limbs; Bruce dodges when Tony awkwardly jerks a knee out. “Whoops. Still trying to figure that out.”

There’s an impression of metal on Tony’s right leg, red oozing out of uneven scrapes. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

Tony makes a face and says instead, “First-aid kit’s next to that toolbox.”

Bruce sighs, but he listens, putting down the rag and starting to slowly patch Tony up. “Any broken bones?” He runs his hands carefully along the length of Tony’s arm.

“Nope. Just some cuts and bruises here and there.”

“Good. As for the clean up...anything new?”

Tony’s shoulders sag a little, crumpling. “Bodies. Lots of ‘em under all that rubble. Found a lot today. Christ, I think I want some sugar. You wanted dessert with me next, right?” His voice is fast, rushed.

“Tony...”

“I know for a fact that the next place on the alphabetical list is an Italian restaurant, but -- dessert, Bruce. Cheesecake, pie, the works. There’s leftover sandwiches in the fridge we can chow down real quick, so you can’t complain about spoiling your appetite or whatever--”

“How many?” Bruce cuts in, pushing a bandage into place.

“Fuck. I don’t know. Twenty this time, maybe. And, uh. Some kids.” Tony doesn’t look at him.

Bruce exhales, the sound sharp in his ears, smarting at his throat, terse and raw. “Oh. Shit, I’m sorry. You know, it’s not--”

“Don’t bother, Bruce,” Tony says. “And please don’t banish me to bed. I’m awake right now. And I get funny dreams anyways. Probably because of our new varied diet, but--”

“You’re helping, Tony, and it’s enough,” Bruce says quietly. Picking up another bandage, he begins to swab at another wound with a disinfectant-lathered cotton ball, ignoring Tony’s pointed grimace.

“That’s what sucks.”

Bruce sets the second bandage in. “What?”

“It’s not enough.” And Tony forces a smile, and chatters on about cheesecake.

 

*

 

Bruce blunders sleepily towards the bathroom, hurrying across the dim lit hall and pushing the half-open door. Midway, he stops.

Somebody’s already inside.

Clint Barton’s there, bent over the sink, water droplets streaming down his face. Barton squints at the mirror, muttering, “ _Blue_...no, what the _fuck._ ” He sighs, hands patting roughly at his cheeks. Then he turns the water spigot on. Rinses his face again.

“Barton,” Bruce says, backing slowly back outside the door. “Sorry.”

Barton blinks, the moisture dripping from his eyelids. “Oh. Banner. I’ll be out soon. I -- yeah.” Hands gripping onto the edge of the sink, Barton pulls himself up from his leaning position, reaching for a small towel hanging on a rack.

“Trouble sleeping?”

“You could say that,” Barton snorts, the sound muffled by the cloth pressed against his face. A muted huff, and the towel rustles minutely.

“Are you okay?” Bruce asks, his mouth curving into a worried frown. “If you need sleeping meds or something, I can ask JARVIS for you.”

“Don’t worry about me, man,” Barton says. He hangs the towel back on the rack. “It’s just. You know. Weird.”

Bruce says, “I guess it must feel odd. Fury said that you should be fine...are there any side effects? I could look into it for you. Scan you, or something.”

He surveys Barton curiously. There’s no outward signs of harm, just tiredness. Barton looks small, human, in his sleep wear -- a plain white shirt and gray sweatpants, as well as simply sock covered feet. No quiver on his back, no bow in his hands.

“Nah. I’m good. You don’t have to do all that.” Barton growls, a grunt of air. “How can you put up with this shit, Banner?”

“What?”

“Losing it,” says Barton. “Trying to make sure your eyes aren’t changing like a damned chameleon. Hell. I don’t know.”

“You get used to it,” Bruce says wryly, and he isn’t upset, not tonight, that Barton’s pulling comparisons between the other guy and being Loki’s puppet. After all, Tony said something almost the same. “Loki’s gone, Clint.”

“He goddamned better be,” Barton says, nodding good night to Bruce. He begins to exit the room. “‘m going to try and sleep now. See you in the morning, Banner.”

“See you,” Bruce echoes. He shuts the door, and pivots the sink’s handle sideways, letting the water run in between his fingers. He scrubs at his face, tracing the rough stubble there, and he looks at his own eyes in the mirror.

The thing about being always angry is that you never know when it’ll manifest at its worst.

(A nightmare of his: Tony among a pile of rubble and dust, cradling dead bodies like how the Hulk once held Iron Man. Bruce wakes, holding back a stifled yell.)

 

*

 

The timezones are all messed up in Bruce’s head. He’s traveled from place to place, and now that he’s back in New York, his sleep schedule is wavering between them. So he wakes up around sunrise and gets JARVIS to allow him access to one of Stark’s labs, where he fiddles with chemicals, scrawling formulas on a whiteboard.

He doesn’t hear Romanoff when she walks easily across the bamboo floorboards, reading over his shoulder at the board. “Isn’t this some sort of explosive, Doctor Banner?”

Bruce starts. “Agent Romanoff. Yeah, it is. I was thinking about making a solution for Barton to dip his arrows in, so they’ll be more destructive, more flammable.”

“He’ll like that,” Romanoff says. She examines the line of elements lined up side by side. “New toys for him. Barton tends to use up his ammunition faster than S.H.I.E.L.D. can supply him.”

“I bet he does,” says Bruce, shaking his head. “So. Um. Why are you up so early?”

“I heard footsteps outside my room,” Romanoff says. “Thought I’d better check to see who. Why are _you_ up so early?”

“Jet lag. Among other things,” Bruce says, pointing at his work. “Still exhausted, though.” He combs a hand through his tangled curly hair.

“You look like crap,” Romanoff remarks bluntly. “Go to bed, Banner. You’re no use to us if you can’t stay awake the rest of the day.”

“The other guy runs on different stuff than me,” Bruce says, grinding the words out from his teeth, feeling so tired, so used. “He’s always ready. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I said, _you’re_ no use to us. I’m not talking about your double life.” An order. A damned order from one of the resident S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, still looking fierce in a black undershirt and cut-off shorts, still kind of beautiful.

“I’m not a child, Romanoff. I can take care of myself. And I have work to finish.”

Romanoff crosses her arms. “Banner.” She studies him, her eyes a sharp shade of blue that Bruce thinks he can identify, a color he’s seen inside a chemical-filled test tube before.

“Yeah?”

“Go. I’ll have JARVIS lock you out of the labs for now.”

Bruce narrows his eyes, and maybe for a minute, he might’ve been _losing it_ , like Barton had said, but he doesn’t want to hurt Romanoff, not again. Suddenly, he remembers running, running after a terrified woman, her red hair flaring behind her like fire sparks, and he’s not angry. He’s Bruce.

Romanoff is studying at him, muscles tense.

“Don’t be scared,” he says quietly. “I’ll go. And I’m sorry about before. When he chased you earlier.”

Romanoff sighs, the fight leaving her eyes. “Don’t apologize for him, Banner. Just go back to sleep. Two hours minimum.”

“Two hours,” Bruce repeats.

“No more, no less.”

A flicker of a smile turns up on Bruce’s face. “If you say so, then.”

He leaves.

 

*

 

In the afternoon, the city is terrorized by humongous eight-legged robots that rampantly trample anything in their path. The Avengers are helped by a masked hero named Spider-Man, who Bruce hasn’t heard of because of his absence from New York. They approach him warily. Apparently, he’s a well-known vigilante, but he’s technically on their side.

“They’re Doc Ock’s pets,” Spider-Man says briefly. “Nasty things.”

“Doc Ock?” Rogers asks.

“Doctor Octopus,” Romanoff clarifies, already passing the information over to Agent Hill over the comm. She’s silent, probably as Hill recites the guy’s file, and Clint’s quiet, too. “Okay. Captain Rogers. Stark. You two cover the west end, and the three of us will cover the east.”

Spider-Man speaks up. “I’ll go after the mastermind myself. I’m used to fighting him -- I think I can try and find out where he’s hiding, where he’s controlling these bots.”

Romanoff hesitates, but Barton nods. He says, “Go. You’re the expert, kid.”

Tony tosses the Spider-Man a tiny earpiece, and he catches it, lightning quick. “Press the button on top to activate it. Call us for help if you need it. Oh, and you can swing by for pizza with us afterwards.”

“Stark!”

“It’s a form of team-building, Romanoff, don’t blow a gasket. And an incentive. Y’know, trying to improve productivity and all, I do it all the time with Bruce.”

Bruce hides a laugh; Rogers raises his eyebrows. “Positions, everyone,” Rogers orders.

Spider-Man raises a gloved hand out to the sky, and shoots a web out to the side of a building, hauling himself up. Then he’s lost once he swings to the next building, and Barton whistles as the guy disappears from sight. “Vigilante or not, he’s got some nice threads, yeah, Natasha?”

Romanoff ignores him, already starting off to the predetermined station on the east side. Bruce races to catch up with her, and Barton trails behind.

There’s one giant octopus lumbering at the end of the block, arms flailing up and down. Romanoff withdraws a gun from a holster; Barton pulls back his bow, arrow notched into place. “Ready when you are,” Barton says, sending her a sideways grin.

Romanoff fires, and it’s no ordinary gun, it’s something that S.H.I.E.L.D. obviously cooked up. Like a laser cutter or something. It leaves a searing scrape across the octopus's exterior, and Barton lets the arrow fly into the same spot, watching as the robot stumbles from the resulting explosion.

“Need the other guy right now?” asks Bruce, screwing up his eyelids and feeling the green channeling through him. _He’s_ excited by the prospect of another battle. Ready to rip, ready to tear through metal and through circuitry, watching it all fall apart around him.

“Hold on, Banner,” Romanoff says. “We don’t want to add in another damage factor into this situation. Just be ready.”

An exhaled breath. “Okay. Okay.”

The metal on the octopus is scarring, cracked tears on its side from the combined efforts of the laser firearm and the fiery arrows, but it’s like armor. Too strong. The octopus can’t properly attack but it can’t be properly destroyed, either, and Barton is noticeably running out of arrows.

“Damn it,” Bruce hisses, on edge. The _green._

Barton and Romanoff are good at this, of course, but it’s not enough.

A claw retracts out from the octopus’ domed head, blindly grappling at the air, and Bruce _jumps_ , the clothes onto his back ripping into shreds. He’s spinning, spinning in midair towards the cutting metal, and the claw rakes across his now-green shoulders downwards--

And he roars.

He casts a black shadow over Barton and Romanoff’s small forms. They’re safe. There was a blow, and the Hulk took it for them.

\--The birdie man and red-hair woman are safe, the other guy rumbles, creeping into his thoughts.

His vision swims in hazy green, and he surrenders all control over to his Hyde.

 

*

 

The next moments fall into his head in jagged scraps.

\--Hulk stomp onto robot. Robot fall on Hulk. Metal hurt. Hulk stuck. Red woman yells.

_My name, other guy, that’s my name._

\--Birdie man yell, too. Metal hurt. Hulk hurt.

_Let me come back, I think I can get us out if we’re smaller._

\--Hulk hurt!

_I know, I know. But listen to me, please._

From the small window in his consciousness, Bruce sees Romanoff tread carefully through fallen octopus limbs. She leans over him, at the trapped monster under the robot, and says over her shoulder, “Barton, I think he can’t get out.”

The other guy tries to wriggle out, body squirming, arms lifting, but the damn thing’s too heavy.

\--Hulk can’t!

He says that out loud, “Hulk can’t,” in that low gravelly voice that shakes the ground.

“You can,” Romanoff red-hair woman says. “You did your part, Hulk. Thank you.”

\--Hulk hurt.

“But it’s Bruce’s turn now.”

_Listen to her, you can trust her. I told her she didn’t have to be scared of us, did you see that before? You can trust her._

Romanoff meets the other guy’s gaze levelly, her blue eyes not flinching.

Barton smiles from behind her, saying, “Stark promised us pizza, remember? C’mon, Bruce. C’mon, Gigantor.”

From under the rubble, the Hulk blinks, slowly, and he’s shrinking, fading back into the small form of Bruce Banner. Mild-mannered scientist by day, violent jolly green giant by night.

_Thank you._

He opens his eyes, and Romanoff and Barton -- no, Natasha and Clint; they called him Bruce, didn’t they? -- are waiting expectantly. “Pizza, huh? I’m, ah, in a more of a garlic bread mood myself.” Bruce shakily pulls himself out from underneath the robot, brushing dust from his bare chest.

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Natasha says, a faint smile on her lips. “Welcome back.”

Clint grins and tosses him a shirt, which Bruce had told him to stash with his arrows. “What she said. Let’s go see if Spidey and the other guys were able to wrap this mess up, okay?”

He struggles to clothe himself, feeling a bit winded. When he attempts to stand, his knees give way. “Shit. Sorry. You two can go ahead. I think I need a breather.”

Clint rolls his eyes, and hooks one arm under Bruce’s. “There. Does that help?” Natasha shakes her head and moves to Bruce’s other side, hoisting him up.

A relieved sigh. “Yeah. Thanks.”

They make the strangest color scheme -- black spy suit, black archery outfit dashed with purple, white shirt and green trousers. Bruce lets Clint and Natasha support him across the New York streets, the sides of his mouth dipping into a smile, and well, there they go.

 

*

 

Bruce, Clint, and Natasha collapse tiredly into a pizzeria booth. Bruce’s shoulders knock against Natasha’s, and he smiles at her apologetically.

“You three looks cozy,” Tony remarks with a snort. He throws a pile of menus at them, which Bruce fumbles to catch, and then distribute out.

Rogers lounges on an adjacent chair. He gives them a wave, looking rather exhausted himself, his red and blue uniform slightly tattered and dirtied. It’s a striking contrast to Tony, who looks crisp and clean; he’s changed into a casual button-down shirt and jeans.

“Bruce got himself trapped under the robot,” Clint explains.

“You all right?” Rogers says.

“I’m fine,” Bruce dismisses, flipping into the appetizers section and searching for the garlic bread. “The other guy switched back, so I was able to squeeze out. Where’s Spider-Man?”

Tony shrugs. “He left us a webbed up Doctor Octopus. With a note talking about giving him a rain check on the pizza. Apparently he’s got plans.”

Natasha holds a hand out. “And the comm?” She receives a sheepish grin in response. “Stark--”

“Hey, don’t look at me. I thought the kid would like to contact us if he got into any more trouble. Anyways, Steve didn’t object or anything. He’s the captain, amirite?”

“That’s S.H.I.E.L.D. tech you’re handing out like candy, to a known vigilante--”

“I think she’s got a point, actually--”

“Brucie, don’t take her side--”

“Jesus, people,” Clint says. “Calm down. Let’s talk about pizza instead. Anyone want to share a Hawaiian with me?”

Steve raises a hand, apparently wanting to defuse the conversation as well. “I’ll try some, whatever that is.”

“Pineapple and ham,” says Bruce. Steve raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “But no thanks. I’ll stick with my garlic bread.”

“That’s really not lunch, y’know,” Clint says.

“And a salad to go with it, if that makes you happy,” Bruce says mildly. It must be a S.H.I.E.L.D. thing. Worrying about his sleeping and eating habits, for God’s sake.

Natasha’s eyes meet his briefly, as if she’s thinking the same thing. Bruce feels the corners of his mouth twist into a smile.

 

*

 

“Natasha said you were making me something,” Clint says, wandering into the lab around evening. “What’ve you got for me?”

“Hey, Robin Hood,” Tony says from beside Bruce. “He’s not done yet, so scram, will ya?”

“Share, Tony,” Bruce says, elbowing him good naturedly, “he can look all he wants, all right?”

“That sounds dirty--”

“Oh, shut up, Stark, please,” says Clint. Tony makes a pouty face, but he goes back to his computer; he’s working on something for his suit.

Bruce motions Clint over to the cluster of test tubes on the lab counter. “I’ve been having fun with Tony’s chemicals here all day. I have no idea where he gets some of this stuff, or even if some if it is _legal_...” He looks pointedly at Tony’s back, and receives a flippant middle finger in reply. Clint, unfazed, picks up one of the tubes, squinting at the liquid inside.

“That one is a type of acid. You’d have to make a specific arrow that would work with it -- put the acid in a capsule and have the capsule break on impact, when you hit a target. But it’s not going to land accurately...I’m probably going to have to ask Tony for help on this one.”

“That’s cool,” Clint says, setting the tube down. “And the other ones?”

“Still in the works, but you’re looking at a full array of weapons when they’re finished and tested. Like, that one over there is basically modeled over Spider-Man’s cobwebs. So you’ll be able to deploy nets at people.”

“ _Awesome._ Thanks, doc. You know, you’re my favorite scientist on the team now.”

“No problem,” says Bruce, shrugging.

“You live in my damn house, Barton,” Tony calls out. “All scientists are created equal!”

“And S.H.I.E.L.D. paid for today’s lunch, Stark. And they cleaned up your mess. I can like this tower’s scientists as much as I want,” Clint says, slinging an arm around Bruce’s shoulders.

“Some more equal than others,” Bruce agrees, choking back a laugh.

“I am losing you to S.H.I.E.L.D., buddy. Why can’t we be rebellious science bros, Brucie? I’m making something _amazing_ right now...”

“And what might that be?”

Tony waggles an eyebrow. “Can’t tell you with the government’s lapdog in the room. Three can’t keep a secret, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Unless two are dead. That’s a crap analogy,” Clint snorts. “If you’re going to show a super secret science project to the good old doctor, you might as well show it me. Anyways, I’m not actually S.H.I.E.L.D.’s star agent when it comes down to rules.”

“Fine, fine. Stay if you like.” Tony waves them over to the computer. “JARVIS, show ‘em.”

Holograms fly from the screen, spinning and glowing a luminescent blue. They’re parts at first, disconnected, but like a DNA helix, they branch out, intertwine, and Bruce can see the form of a mechanism slowly emerging. For the sake of Tony’s ego, he tries not to look impressed, but Clint’s eyes (quick eyes, archer eyes) are wide as they scan the holograms.

“This is your arc reactor,” Bruce realizes.

“Yeah.”

“This looks like -- a power source or something. A battery.”

“Bingo,” Tony says, toying with one of the holographic screens idly. “I wanted to give my heart a bit of a boost. Just in case.

Bruce cranes his neck up to look at the diagram. “And that’s not what your arc reactor’s been doing already, correct?”

“It’s only a magnet.”

Clint’s listening to them talk, nodding at intervals, and Bruce wonders if he understands what they’re talking about. Clint says, “So why the secrecy, anyways?”

“My heart, Legolas, not your business. And I don’t want the government getting too familiar with my tech,” Tony replies easily, and Bruce thinks, _Why now, though?_

He doesn’t say that out loud. It shouldn’t be his concern, after all. This is Tony Stark. He can handle himself. Bruce just asks several simple questions -- engineering isn’t really his main field -- and Tony answers them smoothly.

Looks like Tony has all his bases covered.

When he’s finished asking, Clint says to Bruce, “Want to show your notes to Natasha? She can pass them along to the S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists so we can get my arrows modified.”

“Of course.”

Tony mutters something to the screens, and his arc reactor plans vanish. “Have fun with the ninja, you two.”

Once they exit the lab, Clint says softly to Bruce, “What’s up with him?”

“You noticed, huh?”

“I’m not blind,” Clint says. “I don’t have to be a fancy scientist to see that something’s off.”

“Pepper Potts -- the CEO of Stark Industries, do you know who she is?”

“Isn’t Stark her boyfriend?”

“I think they broke up. Or had a fight,” Bruce says uncomfortably. “I overheard several of the Stark employees saying something like that.”

Clint’s walking pace slows. “Oh. That sucks.”

“Yeah. I know. I think the rebuilding effort’s taking a bit of a toll on him, too.”

They walk together in silence, Clint steering him towards the lounge, where Natasha presumably is. They find her flicking through a file on her lap, the television on in front of her. “Got something for you, Nat,” Clint announces, waving towards Bruce’s papers.

“Oh?”

“Stuff for my arrows,” Clint says. “Pass it along to the S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists for me, will you?”

“You can do it yourself, Barton,” Natasha says, rolling her eyes.

“They’re not exactly on speaking terms with me,” he says coolly, and Bruce raises his eyebrows, and thinks that’s a very appropriate Clint-Barton-esque answer. “I’m going through my arrows faster than they can make the stuff. They were whining about feeling like factory workers last time I stopped by.”

Natasha sighs. “The people who make your weapons don’t like you. That’s very…safe.” Clint makes an amused noise in response. But Natasha takes the papers anyways, tucking them behind the file on her lap. “Banner, do you suppose Stark can handle the Avengers weapons for us? So we’re not putting too much of a burden on S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“I guess I can ask.”

Clint lights up. “Since you’re so buddy-buddy with the jackass, think you can convince him to install a structure on the roof for me?”

“...Are you asking for a sniper’s perch or something, Clint?”

“Something like that--”

Natasha says, “His _nest_ , Bruce” in a tone that sounds like she’s laughing, genuinely laughing.

Bruce fights back a grin, but he can’t help it. “It suits you, Hawkeye. Would you like me to requisition you a pair of wings as well? I bet Stark could make something like that.”

“No way,” Clint says. “Though a motorcycle would be nice. Think he can custom design something for me?”

“I’ll ask,” Bruce says, deadpan.

“Thanks,” Clint says wryly.

Natasha looks entertained by the entire conversation, shaking her head. “I’ll make a note to S.H.I.E.L.D. to pack up the stuff from your old nest. Will that be all?”

“Yep. You’re the greatest, Tasha. Keeping those pissy S.H.I.E.L.D. agents off my back. My _hero_ ,” Clint drawls. “And you’re my hero, too, Brucie, my new go-to arrow guy.”

“A scientist more equal than others,” Bruce reminds him.

“Exactly. You can cry with me in a bathroom any time.”

Bruce nods his head towards Natasha. “And let you both forever control my sleeping and/or eating habits.”

“C’mon, that was _bread._ Bird food, that’s what it is, and look who’s talking.”

“And that was the crack of dawn,” says Natasha. “And what is this discussion, boys? Banter? Manly posturing?”

“Mm. Should have seen our talk earlier. We were _gossiping,_ Nat, if you can believe that.”

“A little bird told me,” Bruce agrees.

Natasha’s the one who cracks, letting out a long husky laugh that warms Bruce’s chest, that makes Clint beam and chuckle. “I _like_ you, Banner.”

“Bruce,” he corrects. “And your sentiment is returned.” Clint exchanged a playful knuckle-bump with him, then with Natasha, and Bruce holds his fist out to her.

She thumps back, _hard_ , eyes sparkling with mirth. “Glad that we’re in agreement, then.”

Bruce winces.

 

*

 

A couple of days later, the Avengers soundly thrash Doctor Doom with a little help from the Fantastic Four, littering the streets of New York with broken Doombots.

“That was fun,” Clint says, cracking his knuckles. “I hope Doom has more of ‘em for later. My new arrows are coming in tomorrow.”

Bruce squeezes into a shirt. He aches, slightly, but all in all, the Hulk did good today. Pounded the bad guys into the ground, didn’t turn on the team or any innocent civilians, and was the shining example of a superhero.

And apparently, Clint had also been trying to teach the Hulk how to play with a deck of cards he’d brought with him, Natasha going along with the whole affair. Of course, the Hulk kept on crushing the cards with his fingers, so now Bruce owes Clint a new deck.

“You guys really aren’t afraid of him, are you?” he says softly.

“We can protect ourselves perfectly fine, Bruce,” Natasha says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We’ve been trained. And Captain Rogers was watching our backs the entire time.”

Bruce lets out a relieved sigh, glad that they hadn’t just let their caution fly to the wind. “Good. Make sure that there’s always someone there who can stop me, okay?”

“We’ve got this,” Clint says, clapping a hand on Bruce’s back.

Rogers nods at Bruce. “It’s all right, Doctor. I’ll be there if Natasha or Clint wants me to.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“You can call me Steve, if you like,” Rogers says with a wide smile on his face. He’d obviously been enjoying watching the disaster of a card game.

Tony pockets his cellphone, flashing Bruce a grin. “You’re back? Cool. Let’s go do some science!” He half-drags Bruce to the limousine he’d just called in, and leaving everybody behind to clean up or take a taxi.

“Were they right?” Bruce says to Tony quietly. “I wasn’t making any trouble?”

“ _He_ wasn’t making trouble,” Tony corrects. “And yeah, you were fine. Your other guy talks like a caveman, did you know that? You should have seen him trying to repeat the numbers and suits Barton was trying to teach him. Sad, Bruce. Sad.”

“I get the brain, he gets the muscles,” Bruce says. “That’s how it works.”

“Neat,” Tony says. “A mutual contract, right there. You think I could run some tests?”

“Another time,” Bruce replies. “Another time, Tony.” Then he remembers: “Natasha asked if you can help cover some of the armory work. For Clint’s arrows. And for her things, so they could make it easier on S.H.I.E.L.D. Do you think...?”

Tony’s mouth thins into a straight line. “Y’know I gave up weapons manufacturing, Bruce.”

“For _them_ , Tony,” Bruce says gently. “You have your suit, they got their own stuff. I’m not asking for a nuclear bomb.”

“I can do that,” Tony says, stretching across the limousine seats. He blinks, like he’s surprised at himself. “I can do that, sure.”

“Thank you. Oh, and Clint wants a motorcycle,” Bruce adds, ducking his head. “And a nest on top of the Tower.”

“What the _fuck_ \--?”

 

*

 

It’s Sunday morning, several days after the Doom fight, and Bruce is blinking away the bright light shining into his bedroom. He sees Natasha at the door, fully dressed, the door wide open behind her. “Hey. Wait. What are you doing in here?”

“Want to come with us today?” she says. “Clint and I are leaving early. Right now.”

“Where?” he says, rubbing his eyes blearily. Natasha doesn’t respond, blank and impassive. He sighs. “Okay. I’ll get dressed. I’ll be there in a second.”

He quickly puts on some clothes, hurrying to the front of the building. Clint and Natasha are waiting in front of one of Tony’s cars.

“Morning,” he says, dragging a hand through his semi-tangled hair, still feeling a bit tired. “Is everything okay? Do you need me to help with something?”

“It’s not business,” Natasha says, shaking her head.

“We’re just going to visit someone for a little while,” Clint says. “Then we can stop by somewhere for breakfast. IHOP sound good? I’ve been craving pancakes.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” Bruce says uncertainly. He catches Natasha’s face -- _don’t ask_ , she seems to be saying -- so he climbs into the car, claiming shotgun (much to Clint’s dismay), and Natasha takes the wheel.

Natasha points at a thermos of coffee in a cup holder. “That one’s for you, Banner. It’s hot, so be careful.”

He thanks her, gratified, and takes a slow sip. To his surprise, it isn’t the blend that Tony has his robots making (which is always a tad too strong for him) -- it’s rich and slightly bitter, and he can feel the world clearing up a bit after a few more gulps as he slowly starts to wake up. “You made this, Natasha?”

“Yup,” Clint says. “She’s killer at making this stuff. It’s her masterpiece, I’m telling you. Even the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who think she’s a cold-hearted bitch would do anything to get their hands on a cup of her coffee. Though she’s shit at making anything else.”

Natasha snorts. “If I remember correctly, Barton, you were attempting to _bribe_ me with increasingly collectible weapons until I caved.”

“You couldn’t refuse that knife, could you?” Clint says smugly.

“There was no way you could’ve obtained that legally, Clint, please.”

“And yet you still took it.”

“There’s some things in the world that a person can’t ever turn away,” Natasha says diplomatically. “And I’m pretty sure that I got the better end of the deal.”

Bruce interrupts to say dryly, “Having to deliver coffee to that guy every morning doesn’t sound that good of a deal to me.”

Clint raises a half-hearted fist-pump in the air. “Hear, hear to that. But she cheated, y’know. She’d only hand off the cup to Coulson and send him on his merry way.”

Bruce’s gaze skitters sideways to find Natasha’s eyes; he sees them narrowing, just for a second. In the rearview mirror, Clint stiffens.

He thinks, _Oh._

He reaches for the radio, turning a dial sideways, tinkering with buttons. Music fills the silence, the steady beat of the stereo sending tremors throughout the car. His fingers go to the thermos at his side, tracing the warm lid.

Bruce’s fingers clasp over another thermos in the cup holders-- the third one, the one that’s not Bruce’s or Natasha’s -- and he holds it back, offering it to Clint.

The thermos is gently pried from his hand, and he hears Clint murmur, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Natasha makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, a mix between a sigh and a hum, and Bruce feels himself thinking that he’d do anything to find a way to figure her out. Well. Her and Clint, that is. Two S.H.I.E.L.D. super agents with so much history behind them.

Eventually, the car pulls up beside a cemetery. The land looks like it’ll go on for miles: track after track of green grass, peppered with gravestones and plaques and statues.

Clint is the one who opens his door first, already starting off in a brisk pace. He skirts around a patch of tulips, orange and pink flowers beside a weeping angel statue, and Bruce doesn’t know whether he should follow or not.

Natasha nudges him. “Come on. He forgot his coffee.”

Bruce blinks. “Yeah. Of course.”

They keep carefully to a stone-lined path, following the distant outline of Clint’s back. Clint suddenly veers off into the grass and stops by a fresh grave about ten rows in, his hands shoved into his pocket and his eyes trained on the spot.

Natasha and Bruce are a brief distance away, giving Clint space.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bruce says to Natasha eventually, his voice kept at a low volume. Phil Coulson -- even if he hasn’t known him very well -- had seemed like a good man. Definitely not like the other government assholes who had been trying to hunt him down, anyways.

“Thank you,” Natasha says, inclining her head briefly. “He was a good agent. His sacrifice had a big impact on us all.” She pauses. “Barton, he’s -- he’s particularly affected by Agent Coulson’s passing.”

“Is that why you brought me along here?” Bruce says “Like -- moral support, I don’t know. I mean -- I didn’t know Coulson well, I don’t know if I really should be here.” He stumbles over the words.

“No, it’s fine.” Natasha shoots Bruce a probing look. “You’re in the Initiative, Bruce. He regarded you as much a hero as Captain Rogers.”

 _Did he?_ Bruce wonders, remembering the glass cage waiting for him in the helicarrier, but he really can’t blame S.H.I.E.L.D., not at all. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to know him longer.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“I know,” Bruce says.

Natasha says, “I brought you along because Clint thinks of you as a friend. I suppose I wanted him _comforted_ , today.” She laughs, like she’s shocked by her own words. “I’m going soft, aren’t I, Bruce?”

“If the news recap about yesterday isn’t lying to me, then no, you’re not going soft at all,” Bruce says, his mind replaying back to footage of Natasha fighting the good fight. “But how about you, though? Are you okay?” He casts Natasha worried glance.

“I’m used to casualties, if that’s what you mean.”

Bruce sighs, and he leans his body against her, brushing against her black leather jacket. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

She doesn’t pull away from the contact. “I miss him,” she says eventually, voice hoarse.

“Yeah. That’s what I was asking about,” he says, because he knows he’s been brought along for her as well as Clint. “It’s okay, y’know. Loki’s gone, Natasha.”

Her eyes are very blue, blazing. “He goddamned better be,” she says, and Bruce thinks _What?_ , because it’s deja vu, it’s Natasha being in sync with Clint and Bruce being in sync with both of them.

“We should go,” Natasha says after a minute.

“Do you want to--?”

“No, it’s all right. Clint just needed a little more time,” she says. “I already said my goodbye at the funeral.”

(The funeral. He hadn’t been invited, but he knew it happened when Clint, Natasha, Tony, and Pepper had simultaneously disappeared from the Tower a few days ago. Tony had come back reeking of alcohol, looking like he had been through a bar brawl. Pepper had, according to Tony, locked herself up in her office for the day, throwing herself into her work.)

“Oh. Okay. I’ll tell him.” He makes his way towards Clint, who is looking down at the plaque like it’s the only thing in the world, and Bruce heaves a heavy sigh. “Clint, um...”

“Yeah?” Clint says. He looks up, his eyes hazy, very much unlike his usual archer’s sharpness.

Bruce presses Clint’s coffee thermos into his hands. “You forgot this in the car. Do you want to go out for breakfast now?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Clint tears his eyes away from the grave and stares at the coffee instead, an expression like surprise crossing his face.

“I’m sorry about your loss,” Bruce says.

Clint just pulls a smile and says, “Nah, it’s all right, Bruce. He did good, man. You all did good.”

“You, too.”

Clint snorts, softly.

They walk back to the car, Natasha in the backseat, Clint deciding to take the seat next to her, leaving Bruce to drive.

In the rearview mirror, Bruce sees them, their bodies brushing, black leather against black leather, and maybe, just maybe, their hands reaching out, fingertips touching.

_So much history, huh?_

 

*

 

It’s evening when Bruce finds Tony sprawled across the workbench in one of his workshops, obviously completely and utterly drunk.

“Hey, Bruce,” Tony says, looking up at him blearily. “Where’ve you been, buddy?”

“Working,” Bruce replies. He’d shut himself up in one of the rooms after he’d come back from breakfast -- Natasha and Clint had disappeared, probably off on a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission or something.

“Mm. Missed you -- thought you went with Robin Hood and the ninja today.” Tony shifts on the bench, moving to a sitting position. “You want to join me?” He waves at his glass.

“I don’t think getting drunk with you is a good idea,” Bruce says.

“Ah, but it helps,” Tony says. “You’ve been hanging out with Romanoff and Barton, aren’t you? Bet that that’s weird to deal with.”

“They might seem scary, but they’re okay,” Bruce says, rolling his eyes, because this is Tony Stark talking right now, who is known for being very, very difficult to deal with.

“If you say so. Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

Bruce takes a seat next to Tony on the bench. “I’m sure.” He cards his fingers through his hair, suddenly feeling very tired. “And how about you? Why are you drinking?”

Tony doesn’t respond, just takes another swig of alcohol.

“Is it about...” They’re friends, aren’t they? Tony will understand if he mentions it, maybe. “About Miss Potts?”

“Pepper?” Tony says. “No, not really. I guess we’re still on good terms.”

“Is it true you, well. Broke up?”

“Been keeping up with the rumor mill, have you?” Tony says, amused. “Yeah, it’s true. She’s doing great. I’m doing great. In fact, Pepper’s exchanging suspect emails to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s very own Maria Hill, if you can believe that.”

“...What?”

“Hmm, yeah. Don’t ask. It involves a long stream of arguments between me and Miss Hill over email and Pepper stepping in to try and cool it down. Then stuff happened.” Tony shrugs. “And then other stuff. So now I’m drinking. Clean up of New York is done, too, y’know.”

“Am I supposed to keep up with all of this?” Bruce says. But he sobers at the mention of the clean up, wondering what more could there be that’s troubling Tony.

“You can try.”

“So tell me about this ‘stuff’, then.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Tony says, snuffling, and he’s more noticeably drunk, his words slightly slurring. “It’s like that old song. There’s a snake in the cave and poison in the cup and Loki--” He stops. “Never mind. Ignore that. So yeah. Thought it wasn’t real at first, but. You know how these things go. And the green grass grows all around and around, etcetera.”

Bruce stiffens. “ _Loki_ , Tony? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m drunk,” Tony says unhelpfully. The hand not holding onto his drink touches his chest, briefly, where his modified arc reactor lies.

“Okay...” Bruce shakes his head. “Did you find out that Loki is back or something through Agent Hill?” he tries, sick at the thought, his body tensed up.

“No. Loki’s in Asgard.”

Bruce lets out a small noise of frustration. “Damn it, Tony, you’re the one who mentioned him. If it’s important, then tell me and tell the rest of the team. This is the guy who almost destroyed New York, remember?”

Tony pats Bruce’s arm. “No, forget it, it’s nothing. Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’m just rambling. That’s a funny word, _rambling._ I just rambled. I went on a ramble. Can you use it like that?”

“Tony,” Bruce groans, tugging the glass of alcohol from the man’s hands, “I think you’ve had enough tonight.”

“You’re not _Pepper_ , Bruce, don’t tell me that--”

“But in all seriousness,” Bruce interrupts, “you didn’t mean anything about Loki, did you?”

“Cross my heart,” Tony says solemnly.

It’s only later when Bruce remembers that, at least according to the media and the general public, Tony Stark isn’t reputed to have a heart.

( _They need somebody to blame_. No. That’s not right. _You_ do.)

 

*

 

The week after, the next villain is another one of Spider-Man’s usual foes, a guy called the Vulture. The Vulture’s going on a major burglary spree, hitting jewelry store after jewelry store, bank after bank.

Bruce hasn’t changed into the Hulk yet, seeing as there’s only one person to deal with, and everyone else seems to be handling themselves just fine, so he’s been sticking near Clint, who serves as the long-range fighter in this battle. The two of them are on a roof, Clint releasing arrows at the Vulture whenever he flies in their direction. Natasha’s covering the ground, which means mostly keeping the area secured and the stolen items returned. (Steve’s sitting this one out. S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted him to deal with a mission of theirs that they thought would suit him best.)

It’s the usual run-of-the-mill superhero fight so far until Bruce sees Tony (who is the only Avenger right now who can fly, with the absence of Thor) take to the sky to meet the Vulture head on.

“Hey, baldy!” Tony shouts. Bruce makes a face as his voice blares loudly through the comm. “Take some of this, will you?” He shoots orange rays of light from his hands, but the Vulture dodges each blast fluidly.

Then: something goes wrong.

Tony hollers into the comm, “Look, if anybody’s listening -- what energy does this bastard’s wings run on?”

A cold shudder of shock goes through Bruce. “ _Electromagnetic_ ,” he breathes into the comm, because shit, there’s something like that in Tony’s chest, too.

“Oh, fuck,” Tony says, and it’s clear that his armor is failing, blue light flickering out, now that he’s gotten too close to the Vulture.

Clint fires a well-aimed arrow at the Vulture (currently distracted by the malfunctioning Iron Man) that knocks him down onto the roof. Clint turns to Bruce. “You’re going to have to catch Stark.”

“Get Natasha,” Bruce says, readying himself. “We’re going to have to find a way to jumpstart Tony’s arc reactor, too.”

He _jumps_ , arms widespread and shirt flapping in the wind, and the Hulk emerges during freefall.

_Like last time, just like last time, buddy, we got to get him._

And he’s still falling, a heavy green monster plummeting downwards, the air rushing past and the Hulk holds his arms out in a cradle position, and he--

\--Shiny man isn’t flying so Hulk catch.

The Hulk lands, feet pounding a crater in the street. He places Tony on the ground with uncharacteristic gentleness, all roughness absent.

\--What’s wrong, shiny man?

_Let me through now, I have to help Tony. Please._

This is the fastest Bruce has ever changed back -- he can feel his mind taking over, body shrinking down, Bruce-ness blooming out. Was the other guy aware of how worried he was about Tony?

No. Not now. It’s not the time to wonder about the Hulk.

Natasha tosses him a shirt, already waiting. “Here. Let me have a look at him.”

He slips it on while Natasha carefully removes Tony’s helmet, revealing Tony’s face. Tony’s still conscious, swearing colorfully as he seems to be going into a panic attack, and Natasha says, “Do you have a spare arc reactor?”

“Yes. No. Sorta,” Tony huffs. “Jesus Christ. Not a spare with the battery in it, but it’ll have to do. Go to the car, Romanoff, there’s a briefcase in the trunk.”

Natasha nods tersely and sprints away.

“Just hang on,” Bruce says, and he’s shaking. “You’re going to be fine.”

Tony’s breathing becomes even more uneven, sweat streaming down his forehead. “Damn it, fucking bald bastard. It doesn’t help that that fucking leech is -- _goddammit_ ,” Tony says, coughing. “She’s not going to make it in time.”

“She will,” Bruce says fiercely, because he trusts that Natasha can do it. She can do _anything_ , he’s seen her file, and she’s been compromised before ( _Red Room_ ), she’s been programmed, but look at her damn fucking now. He can still lose himself today and there’s no room for redemption because the other guy will keep on smashing, but she can do anything, the woman with hair like fire.

Tony doesn’t seem to hear him; he throws back his head and _laughs_. “ _Self-sacrifice_ ,” he says in mocking disdain. “Is this what you meant, you fucking jerk?”

“What are you--?” Bruce starts.

 _Very well, then,_ comes a light whisper through the air, and Bruce freezes, because he knows that voice, and the other guy’s snarl builds up in the back of his throat. _For you, Stark._

( _For them_ , Bruce had said before, but this shouldn’t be -- _isn’t --_ a relevant thought.)

There’s a flicker of green, an image like a finger touching Tony’s chest, blue rushing back, and Tony’s breathing more easily.

Bruce’s heart is pounding, tearing at his chest, and he roars, _PUNY GOD--_

But there’s a hand on his back, a voice saying, “Hey, it’s okay, chill. Why are you freaking out?”

“Clint?” he manages shakily.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Clint says, his rough hand making gentle circles on Bruce’s back. “Tony’s going to be fine, alright? Look, see -- I can see Tasha coming already.”

His heart rate slows, and he takes a breath. “Sorry. Sorry. Give me a minute, okay?” He runs his hands through his ruffled hair. Steady. Steady.

“Everything will be fine,” Clint says. Natasha’s already swapped out Tony’s arc reactor and slides in another, and Bruce thinks: _No. No, it won’t._

“What the _hell_ was that about, Stark?” he says, when Tony’s taken off his suit, attempting to recover himself. “I am going to _rip_ that thing out of your chest--”

“Calm down, Bruce,” Natasha says sharply. “What happened?”

“ _Loki_ happened!” he snaps. “Loki was here, almost a minute ago, and you knew about him, Tony. Is he or is he not in Asgard?”

Clint’s jaw tightens, an arm creeping back towards his bow. ( _Trying to make sure your eyes aren’t changing like a damned chameleon._ )

“Explain,” Natasha demands, and Bruce remembers the terror terror _terror_ of chaos in the helicarrier that day, the Hulk on a rampage, wild in a way that he can’t even explain, remembers studying recovered footage of Loki slamming a fist against the _glass_ \--

“He’s not real,” Tony spits out, “it’s not him, not really. Loki’s locked up in a cave somewhere, and this is a magic-form-thing of him. He’s -- not real.”

“He used magic on you.”

“He healed me. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Tony replies flatly.

“And why the hell would he do that?” Clint says.

“Leech,” Bruce realizes. “ _Leech_. Tony, what the hell have you gotten into?”

Tony’s eyes slide close; then open, a heavy brown.

Bruce observes the circles underneath them, and says, “God. Tony. You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”

Like the words are being dragged out of him, Tony mutters, “Technically, no. But. Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”

There’s a whirlwind of black and red, and Natasha pins Tony down to the ground. “You’re compromised, Stark. We’re going to have to take you to Fury.” She whips out a pair of metal cuffs from her belt, and for once, Tony doesn’t say something mocking.

Natasha’s face is a blank mask -- she’s the spy, of course it is -- but Clint tugs, hard, on Tony’s arm. “How about Coulson?”-- and Tony flinches.

Bruce thinks, _You were drunk after Coulson’s funeral. I remember. I hope --_ and he doesn’t know what to hope, not really, he just wants to know how things fell into place this way.

Tony Stark: hero, villain, or other? There’s another checkbox somewhere and it says _friend_ , it says the hunched over man eating Chinese take-out with him.

“Let’s go,” Clint says, folding a hand over Bruce’s wrist.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Come on.”

 

*

 

Natasha had taken one look at him and decided that he needed rest before putting him through a stress-filled interrogation.

So Bruce is given a small room at the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters to occupy. It’s basically a closet, tight walls squeezing in on him, and he’s left to nap until Fury orders him in for questioning.

There’s a cot on the floor -- this is probably a temporary resting place where agents inhabit while working around the clock -- and he sinks into the sweat scented blanket like it’s relief.

He lets the anger wash over him, swirling like madness, and he slips. Just a little. Primal rage and violence and _smashsmashsmash_ , but then the weariness takes over, the resignation, and Bruce sleeps.

“It’s time, Bruce,” a voice says to him, after what feels like hours.

“How long have I slept?” he croaks, groggy.

Natasha smiles -- a rare flash of her upturned mouth -- and she says, “Not as long as I’d like you to, I’m afraid. It’s four in the morning.” She continues, “Stark’s not talking. The director has been grilling him for quite a while.”

“You’re not--?”

“No,” she says.

Yeah. Of course. Tony Stark, of Stark Enterprises. A man with too much influence; a man who’s already done so much for S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Even after all of this,” Natasha says, guessing his thoughts, “I’m don’t think I can do much to him, Bruce. We’re compromised, too, to a certain extent.”

They’ve been living in the guy’s damned house for the past couple of weeks, after all. Boastful, clever, arrogant Tony, who’d given Bruce science again after he’d foregone his research for so damned long.

Idiotic, cruel, mocking Tony, who’d shown Bruce the proof of his betrayal to his face.

“Has he really not said anything?” Bruce says.

“He’s made comments.”

Bruce huffs out a laugh. “God. Fury must be upset.”

The door opens a crack. “Nat,” Clint says, “you better hurry up. Fury’s pissed.”

They stride quickly down the hall, taking turns at each corridor, and Bruce can feel the anxiety pricking underneath his skin.

“What does Fury want me to do?” he says.

“You’re his friend,” Natasha says. “Just get him to take this seriously. We’ll see how to go from there.”

“Baby’s first interrogation,” Clint pitches in, deadpan. He adds, “Don’t hulk out. That’s all we ask of you.”

“I can manage that.”

“Good man,” Clint says, leaning his head towards Bruce once they stop by a door, and Bruce notices Natasha’s grip on his forearm, a hand that was directing him around the base the entire time.

“You two,” he says suddenly, his throat thick. “Thank you. So much.”

Natasha shakes her head, pushing his thank-you aside. “Talk some sense into Stark, alright?”

“Let’s hope that he isn’t sucked into some super villain shit,” Clint says. The sentence comes out more serious than he must have intended, and Clint’s eyes flicker closed, briefly.

“Not blue,” Bruce tells him. “Not red,” he says to Natasha, knowing that he will always, always be green.

 

*

 

“It’s really not mind control, is it?” Bruce says, taking a seat across from Tony, his expression grim.

“Look at my eyes, Bruce,” Tony says, snappish and jeering, but he’s pretending -- he’s damned tired, by the look of things, his hair wild and uncombed, his clothes more ruffled than Bruce’s. “Nobody‘s slapped on a pair of magical hypnotizing contacts there.”

“Stop it,” Bruce says. It sounds like he’s pleading, maybe a little. “Goddammit, Tony, please. Tell me about the arc reactor. Start from there. About Loki being a leech.”

“You can’t make me,” Tony says, like a petulant child. “I mean, S.H.I.E.L.D. They can’t, okay? They shouldn’t be using you against me.”

 _You_ , Tony says.

“Tony, you’re my best friend. Of course I’m here,” says Bruce.

“And I thought you had your fun times with Romanoff and Barton.”

“It’s not the same.” Bruce pauses, wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue. “Just talk to me about Loki. It doesn’t have to be about the arc reactor, then. Tell me about -- about self-sacrifice.”

“He thought I was brave,” Tony says simply. “Fucking idiot thought it was cool the way I risked my own skin with the Chitauri-missile-portal situation.”

“Did he say that?”

“More or less,” Tony says, a smile on his mouth. “I don’t know. He was my friendly neighborhood ghost. Shit company, though, because he was in pain at least half the time.”

Bruce asks, “In pain?”

“It’s his punishment. Told ya before. Like the myths, actually -- tied up in that cave. Poisonous venom from this snake and all that. But he drops by.”

“Oh.”

Tony falters. “Hey. _Don’t look at me like that_!” He lunges forward, and Bruce feels hands pulling at his collar, Tony’s breath on his face.

“Tony--”

“I knew what I was doing,” Tony tells him through clenched teeth. “Look, I swear I wasn’t betraying anybody. He was talking to me about magic. While being snippy. But he’s still a guest of mine.” He babbles on, “And Norse myths, Bruce. There’s no SparkNotes for that.”

“Coulson, Tony,” Bruce reminds him, gently, picturing the sober grief on Clint’s face.

_I miss him._

“Phil Coulson,” he repeats, more fiercely. “If Loki destroying New York isn’t enough to stop you from poking at him, then how about Coulson? How about those kids in that building?”

Tony sinks against him. Rests his forehead against Bruce’s. His skin is warm, sweaty, and his bangs are light touches against Bruce’s temples.

“No,” Bruce says, “you _didn’t_ know what you were doing. But. Hey. It’s okay.” He nudges his forehead back at Tony.

( _Thought it wasn’t real at first._ )

“Fuck,” Tony mutters.

“Idiot,” says Bruce, the fondness there, despite everything.

“Can I go home?” Tony mumbles into Bruce’s ear. “It feels like a long time since we last science’d.”

“No one’s going to stop you, genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist,” Bruce says. “But you got to talk to Fury.”

“Later.”

“Then let’s go home.”

 

*

 

Tony is fast asleep, snoring loudly when the car pulls up beside the Avengers Tower. With Natasha and Clint’s collaborative efforts, Bruce hauls him to the elevator, half-collapsing against the inside railing. Natasha holds the door open before it’s about to slide shut.

“So you did it,” she says.

“Looks like it,” he says, giving her a weary smile.

Clint says, “Make sure he reports back to Fury sometime really soon. And tell Stark that if I see Loki -- illusion or not, I don’t fucking care -- expect an arrow in his ass.”

“I will. And same deal for you too, Natasha?”

“Worse,” she says curtly.

“I’ll make sure he won’t expect anything less.”

She nods, and the elevator door closes.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. agents,” Bruce mutters after them, and he is surprised to find the affection creeping into his voice. That’s -- that’s not new, not really.

He thinks: Clint’s rough hands rubbing a pattern on his back.

He thinks: Natasha’s body glancing against his. She had smelled like coffee.

He thinks: Clint and Natasha. Their fingers meeting.

The elevator door opens with a noisy _ding_ , jolting Bruce out of his thoughts. “Miss Potts,” he says, spotting the woman waiting in front of Tony’s penthouse.

“Call me Pepper, please,” she says, offering a hand out to Bruce as he staggers to carry Tony. “And I’ll return the courtesy, Bruce.”

He accepts her hand, and they both eventually tuck Tony safely away in bed, still in his old clothes, but at least he’s got a proper place to lie down. Bruce sighs; he presses a hand against Tony’s forearm.

“What happened?” Pepper intones quietly. “I thought he’d gotten hurt. I tried calling him.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. took him in for questioning. Tony was being -- thoughtless, again.” A twist of his mouth.

“He’s been acting weird lately,” says Pepper. “He’s built something new, right?”

“A battery,” Bruce barks out harshly. “In his arc reactor. For Loki, Miss -- Pepper.”

“ _Loki_?”

“The very same,” Bruce says.

“Explain, Bruce. Please,” she says, her mouth compressed into a thin line. “I thought Loki went back to wherever he came from. His planet.”

“I can’t exactly understand it all myself, Pepper,” he says, tipping his head back to avoid her gaze, examining the ceiling. Then he meets her eyes. “How weird has he been acting, exactly? How long?”

“Tony’s been Tony,” Pepper says. “It’s hard to tell, Bruce. We haven’t talked a lot of recently, and honestly enough, he doesn’t share. There was a time where he hid the fact that he was _dying_ from me. He’s complicated.” Bruce blinks, and Pepper says, “Yes, I guess that’s why I broke it off with him. We’re both happy this way.”

“Maria Hill,” Bruce says.

“Maria,” she repeats. “Tony told you?”

“Sorry,” he amends hastily. “He was drunk.”

“Asshole.” Pepper sighs. “It’s okay. It’s nothing, really. Just emails, once Agent Romanoff left, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had Maria check up on Tony.”

“It’s none of my business, Pepper,” Bruce says gently. “If you want to talk about it, go ahead, but if you don’t there’s a Tony Stark-shaped problem waiting to be discussed.”

“Isn’t there always?”

“I bet,” he says, the corners of his mouth briefly crinkling into a smile. “But. Um. Loki. Loki’s been dropping by, in some kind of magical projection form, and Tony’s involving himself.”

Pepper’s lips form a wide _o_. “Screwing him, you mean? God. _God._ I don’t understand. Is he okay? Is that invention--?”

“Yeah. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s helping us take care of it,” Bruce says, his grip still on Tony’s arm, squeezing tighter. “I’m afraid for him.”

(The other guy leaks through a bit, the green slipping through his fingers.)

“That’s Tony for you,” Pepper says, soft.

 

*

 

“So you called me your best friend,” Tony says over brunch, pointing his fork at Bruce. “Which is an interesting label, because you’re not exactly _my_ best friend, because that’s Pepper’s position. You’re my third best friend technically, after Rhodey (though he’s not here at the present, still out on a military assignment thing). But when you think about it, this whole entire conversation is ridiculous because we’re not preschoolers dictating whose B.F.F. is whose.”

“Just eat your eggs, Tony,” Bruce says, unable to wipe the grin off his face.

“Which makes Cupid and Jamie Bond who, exactly?”

“To you? Passing acquaintances, I’d say.”

“No, no. To _you_ , Brucie.” Another fork jab in his direction.

“Do we really have to delegate a category for everything to fit into?” Bruce says, dry.

“And _that_ , young grasshopper,” Tony says triumphantly, “ _that_ is the definition of science.”

Bruce shifts in his seat. Focusing on the coffee in front of him (thinking that it isn’t as good as Natasha’s, not at all), he says, “Two people. Have you ever cared about two people at the same time?”

“Well, yeah,” Tony says.

He looks up. Tony’s eyes are very, very brown, christ, and Bruce opens his mouth to say _no_ , he can’t be one of Tony’s people (however weird that sounds); friends, remember?--

\--and then he closes it, remembering who the second person must be.

“Sorry, Tony,” he says instead.

“Dontcha worry about me, Bruce,” Tony says, a smile on his face -- easy and charming, like the smile Bruce has seen on the news and the papers; and just a little sad. “This’ll all work out. Eventually."

“I guess so,” Bruce says distantly.

“Barton’s -- Clint’s nest. You asked me about it before?” Tony begins.

Bruce blinks, taken aback at the subject change. “Um, yeah...?”

“I got it done for him, actually. He owes me a ton ‘cause I really decked it out. But they’re up there now.”

“‘They’?”

“Clint and Natasha,” Tony says. “You can go take a look, if you like.” A pause. “I probably should get going to S.H.I.E.L.D. before Fury has an aneurysm. I hear there’s a therapist waiting for me. I hope that they have one of those couches that I can lay on. Like in movies, y’know.” Again: “I probably should get going.”

“You probably should,” Bruce agrees.

“Go on,” Tony prods. “I know you’re itching to see them.”

“Yeah,” Bruce says, getting up from the table, pushing his coffee away from him, “I’d like to see. Very much.” He adds, “See you later, Tony. We’ve got your list to complete, and there’s a new episode of that show we were watching.”

Tony smiles.

Bruce takes off in a slow jog, footsteps curling around the small staircase leading up to the roof. He pokes his head out of a hatch, searching, and it’s there.

The nest. Which is practically a mixture of an army bunker, a panic room, and a child’s hiding place. Hauling himself up on the roof, he takes a closer look at it, squinting, and there’s so many _things_.

Natasha lies among a heap of blankets, clothed in black as usual. Her left hand rests on a duffel bag (one of many bags in the nest that Bruce is pretty sure he shouldn’t ask about), and her eyes are fixed on the light blue noon sky overhead. Clint is slumbering across from her, the shape of a bow in his hands.

“Have you been up all this time?” Bruce asks Natasha.

“It’s a habit. I’m used to playing watch during our usual missions. And there’s always Stark’s new pet to consider,” Natasha answers.

“He’s going to Fury right now.”

“Good.”

Silence. Bruce watches her, the sunlight playing through her red hair and the warmth on his own skin; Natasha and Clint, sprawled out across the nest.

Natasha says, “There’s room for you,” gesturing to a pile of cushions next to her. “Ridiculous as Clint’s nests are, it’s rather comfortable.”

“And safe, I wager,” Bruce says with a crooked smile. Awkwardly, he climbs into the fray, sinking into red and white striped pillows, the fabric dipping under his weight. It’s soft.

 _Perfect_ , he thinks inexplicably.

He curves an arm around Natasha’s shoulders (and she closes her eyes, just for a little bit: _safe_ ), drags a hesitant hand through Clint’s hair, and waits for the birds to come out.

 

*

 


End file.
